


Ghosts of the Past

by CharredAshes



Series: Reaper76 Week [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Role Reversal, Talon Soldier: 76, mild violence, only minor mccree but here's there i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharredAshes/pseuds/CharredAshes
Summary: Gabriel sees a ghost and gets a rifle bashed against his head. Nothing about it makes sense. He'd rather not think about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Still behind!!! But making progress!! Hoping to carve out some time to actually sit down and get caught up tomorrow
> 
> anyway heres this shit

“What’s the situation, kid?”

“Pretty shitty, boss.” The air was thick with smoke and gunfire, fighting between Overwatch and Talon. Gabriel Reyes was back in his element. He’d missed this, before the recall. The papers would call them vigilantes despite the good they were doing, but Reyes was used to not exactly having his work praised by the public. He liked being back on the field with people he trusted.

Even if the situation was pretty shitty.

“I’m gonna need a little more info than that, McCree.” They were crouched behind cover. McCree rolled his eyes, flipped his gun open to reload and spoke again.

“Two of our guys down, that I saw, and uh…” He trailed off uncomfortably, continuing hesitantly when Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Uh, Reaper’s here. Or at least, Fareeha said she saw ‘im. I dunno if he’s still here, but-”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gabriel said, clapping Jesse on the shoulder before ducking out from cover with his shotguns at the ready.

Reaper. Gabriel didn’t know what the guy’s issue with Overwatch was, but out of all the Talon agents he’d seen on the field, Reaper was one of a handful who seemed to take some sort of personal pleasure in gunning down Overwatch agents. That was a problem, because Gabriel had never exactly taken losing his agents well. He made getting Reaper off this battlefield his responsibility. He always did. He could still feel a twinge of pain in the scar he’d earned last time the guy had given him a pulse rifle round straight to the leg.

The one thing he never had trouble with was actually finding Reaper. If he ran around the battlefield long enough, he’d find him. He always did. He had to imagine Reaper had a sort of personal issue with the idea of an Overwatch agent who didn’t die easy.

The tell-tale cloud of grey smoke announced his arrival, swirling around Gabriel’s boots as it swept past him, and from the smoke rose his enemy’s figure. He was strange to look at, certainly. Talon agents tended to not have the most casual uniforms, but this guy… Clad in all cold blue and grey, visor covering his face, he was obviously making a point of it. Looking intimidating. Gabriel couldn’t say he was exactly impressed. He wasn’t the skittish type.

Gabriel took the first shot.

A fight with Reaper was never easy. He wasn’t that much faster than Gabriel. Not any better of a shot. By all accounts, if Reaper had been a normal man, they’d have probably been a through and through match for each other. But, no. The dematerialization sort of gave him an upper hand. Gabriel did his best to compensate for it, trying to predict his movements, but with how quickly he seemed to burst out of nowhere, that was _hard_. He could mostly keep track of the smoke, when they were in close combat, but at more of a range? It was so easy to lose track of him. Which put him where he was at now: pressed against a wall, his jacket singed from a pulse round that had just barely missed, and no Reaper in sight.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping his guns so hard it made his fingers hurt. “Fuck, where’d you go?” He was talking to himself. Getting an answer made him jump.

“Behind you.” The words came with a rifle stock to the back of his head. He was on his hands and knees, vision blurry from the smack. “You really are stupid.” Bleary eyes peered upwards at the voice. He figured Reaper would end this fast, shoot him before he even had time to realize what was happening, but no. He was walking around towards his front, pointedly kicking the shotguns across the room, pressing the muzzle of his pulse rifle under Gabriel’s chin. “You keep coming to fight me all by yourself, like that wasn’t going to catch up with you.” Gabriel’s heart was slamming against his chest, thumping like a hummingbird’s wings as the rifle left pressure marks on his throat. His breath hitched when he pressed it a touch harder, but Gabriel kept a scowl on his face. “Scared?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he spat. “Nothing scary about some fucker in a bad costume.”

“Never did learn how to shut up, huh?” There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but the guy also sounded like he ate rocks for a living, so he couldn’t place it. “You’ve got no idea how bad I’ve wanted this.” A boot on his chest pushed the still-slightly-dazed Commander onto his back, knocking the air out of him with an ‘oof’. “You were so cocky. Reckless. And now I get to be the one to write the last page in your story. It’s what you deserve. It’s what _I_ deserve.”

“Y’know, the villain’s monologue thing is cute, but either shoot me or don’t, dude. I don’t know why you’re this pissed at me – maybe it’s more interesting with context – but I got better things to be doing than laying here with your boot crushing my fucking lungs.” The man above him gave a derisive snort at Gabriel’s sarcasm.

“You haven’t changed.”

“The cryptic shit is good too. Really. It’ll really get the readers just _buzzing_ if you ever start a feud with Batman - y'know, acting like a dumb fuck comic book villain and all - but I’m not really interested in that, either.”

His guard was lowered. The banter between the two had made Reaper lower his guard. Now was certainly the time. With a harsh, if short, struggle, Gabriel grabbed his enemy by the ankle and yanked him, unbalancing him then jumping on top in all of a second. There was a struggle. Neither had guns within their arms’ reach, but the fists flew, legs kicked, hands reached to push someone off or try to wring their throat. In the commotion, pieces were lost. Gabriel’s beanie came dislodged from his dark curls. Reaper’s mask went flying when Gabriel smacked him in the head.

There was a moment. A half a heartbeat when Gabriel was just looking. Reaper was on top of him, using his momentary lapse in concentration to roll him back onto the floor and pin him down, all the while sparing an angry glance towards the vague direction of the rifle thrown far out of his reach from the scuffle. Gabriel said nothing. He did not try to push back. He did not shove Reaper off and make a mad scramble for his guns. He did not try to touch him. He just laid there, staring up with eyes as wide as a full moon, breathing breaths that were heavy half from the fight and half from the sight of the man hovering over him. Seeing him made his head hurt. There were so many ways it didn’t make sense. There was no explanation, no way he could rationalize this, no way he could made him being here work with everything he thought he knew.

The word escaping his mouth was damn near involuntary: “Jack?”

“What’s the matter angel,” Jack cooed, reaching one clawed hand up to touch Gabriel’s cheek. “You sound like you’ve seen a ghost.”

When they’d been in the SEP together, Jack had given him a gift. His dog tags from the army. He said they were lucky, said ‘ _I mean, well, I haven’t died yet while wearing them, so I’m going to pretend they are, anyway_.’ He’d pressed the chain into Gabriel’s hand, curled his fingers up reassuringly. ‘ _I don’t need them anymore. I want you to have them._ ’ He’d worn them in every single battle since. Even when things with Jack were not so good. Even before Overwatch had come back. The metal seemed to burn against his skin as he stared upwards at the face of Overwatch’s main Strike Commander. This was more than seeing a ghost. This was a nightmare. He wanted to say something, but his tongue stumbled over his words and they came out more like a stammer than anything else.

“What about a bad costume? Scaring you now?” Jack was grinning. If that could be called grinning. It was all teeth, with nothing warm behind his eyes. “Or are you just surprised to see the man you left for _dead_?” The way he said it was so venomous. Gabriel would have assumed he was just trying to get him riled up, but the genuine anger, the resentment, the _hatred_ in his once… In Jack’s voice shook him, to say the least.

He wanted answers. His heart ached for answers about him, about them, but he wanted to ask the big one first. “Why are you fighting us? Those were _your_ people. Those were recruits _you_ trained. Why are you with Talon? How… How are you even here?” His voice trailed off a little at the end.

“Overwatch,” he growled. “Was a mistake.” A response bubbled up in Gabriel’s throat. (‘No shit, that’s what I tried telling you.’) But he pushed it down in favor of listening. “It’s _still_ a mistake. I don’t owe you shit. Definitely not answers.” A sharp claw pressed to his jugular, as though he’d given up on the thought of guns, as though he’d slash Gabriel’s throat open and be done with it, but the thin chain resting against his skin seemed to catch Jack’s attention when his hands brushed against it. He caught it on his finger and lifted, pulling the dog tags out from under Gabriel’s shirt. The name ‘Jack Morrison’ stared back at him. He couldn’t see the name with his visor off. He didn’t need to. He knew what it was. “Your sentiment is going to be the death of you.” He murmured, more a thought than a threat. Gabriel knew he should be doing something. He should be fighting. Gunshots still rang outside. The battle was still going on. He came here to get rid of Reaper and get back into the battle. He needed to get it together.

His eyes just kept tracing over the rotting features of his once lover’s face. His eyes could almost pass for the same. Blue. So blue. Fuck, he’d spent a lot of time getting lost in those eyes. It was an easy habit to fall back into. Or would have been, had they not been so jarringly flat. It was like staring at a corpse.

Jack’s momentary distraction with the dog tags proved fortuitous. He caught the bullet of a revolver in his back while he was contemplating it. Everything happened quick after that. The weight on his chest was gone. Blood stained the floor and his shirt, but Jack was gone, a cloud of grey smoke rushing away. He’d be back. He always was. Gabriel looked up at the sight of a hand offering to help him up. McCree spoke as he hauled Gabriel to his feet.

“Figured somethin’ was up, Gabe. You were takin’ an awful long time. You hit?”

“No, I’m – I’m fine.” There was blood dribbling down the back of his neck, probably a cut from where Jack had bashed him with the rifle, but otherwise he was okay.

“Really? ‘Cause ya don’t _look_ okay. Ya look like – “

Gabriel cut him off, waving his concern away as he went to retrieve his guns. “Like I’ve seen a ghost, yeah. Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get back in the fight.”

“Are we even yet?” McCree asked, and it made Gabriel chuckle. “Don’t laugh, I _should_ count that for two and be one up on ya for savin’ your sorry ass from that prick of all people.”

“Nah, punk, I’ve still got one up on you for the last time we were in Russia.”

“ _What_?! No way, boss, I _had_ that.” This was comfortable. He forced his feelings down as he and McCree quarreled lightly about ‘the last time they were in Russia’ and headed back towards the bulk of the battle. Something made him sure this particular ghost wasn’t near done haunting him though.

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory reminder that I do commissions. Find the info on my blog @ strikecommandergabriel.tumblr.com


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